Page 1 of It's Going to Be a Chrome Christmas
Chapter
One
Cayden thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep them from visibly shaking. He’d learned long ago to control his fury. If a sleeper or an exotic car wasn’t around, he forced his anger into his hands. This way, his face remained blank, and he could easily hide his hands.
“Never show your fear or anger,” his gran always said.“It was what got your father into trouble. I can’t stop you from boosting, but I’ll be damned if that Russo anger gets you killed too.”
Mr. Jones was sitting across the round kitchen table from him, looking just as pleased as Cayden. The rehabilitation officer was in his early sixties, but nothing got past the ornery bastard despite his age. The man had the eyes of an eagle, the nose of a hound, and the ears of a wolf. He knew when one of his parolees had been out drinking before they even stepped foot into the house. Some of Cayden’s housemates saw this as a challenge, but not Cayden. He had no intention of returning to prison and would do anything Mr. Jones said to keep that from happening.
Which was likely the core of his present anger. Because Cayden hadtried. He always tried. But once again, life decided that Cayden wasn’t worthy and kicked him in the balls.
Cayden’s job options through the work program were limited. He didn’t know shit about computers, and his rap of auto theft prohibited him from working any retail job. Mr. Jones had found him three jobs so far—the first as a janitor, the second as a garbageman, and the third as a house cleaner—and he’d just been fired from the third. Cayden didn’t understand it. He showed up on time, was polite to his employers and fellow employees, and kept to himself. His employers knew he was an ex-biker who used to run with the Black Pythons MC. They had to because he was hired through the work program. Twice, his fellow employees had found out, and twice, they had rejected him. Today would make the third time. Cayden didn’t know who had done it, but they’d tampered with his power washer. If he hadn’t caught the kink in the hose at the last second, the damage could have been a lot worse.
So once again, Cayden was sitting in the halfway house’s kitchen with Mr. Jones, looking through job listings. Cayden was never going to get out of this place if he couldn’t hold a job. He couldn’t risk touching the funds he had stashed away prior to going in. He needed to give it at least two years before he risked withdrawing from either account. Cayden had no intention of returning to jail or breaking the law again, but that money was his. Illegally earned or not, it was his nest egg.
He just needed to survive on the outside.
He’d already parted ways with his motorcycle club. While the Black Pythons were a local chapter of a national club that was into drugs, skin and gun trade, blackmail, extortion, and anything else they could think of to make some scratch, Cayden’s former city chapter had excelled in one very specific area: jacking cars. They did it all—hotrods, sleepers, exotics, luxury—and Cayden had been at the forefront.
At least, he had been.
He’d been Boost, the best car thief this side of the Mississippi. But that was not who Cayden was anymore. Being a criminal was in his blood. He’d grown up on the streets, but he refused to die on them.
This was the new Cayden. Cayden 2.0.
He’d thrown out all of his jewelry, with the exception of his grandfather’s coin pendant. The eight piercing holes in his right ear and the three in his left were all empty, along with the one in his nose, the two in his bottom lip, and the one in his tongue. He hadn’t touched his eyeliner or hair dye since getting out, and to be frank, he had been tiring of his signature style of dress before he’d been arrested.
Looking at Cayden now, one would never have guessed that he used to spike his hair, dye his hair tips green, wear eyeliner, and had a jewelry store pierced through his face. He kept his brown hair neatly parted and his face clean. Not having the heart to toss his grandfather’s rings, Cayden had mailed those back to Gran for safe keeping.
Rather than his BPMC cut, ripped pants, boots, and a t-shirt with a smart comment or profanity on it, he now wore a nice pair of jeans and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The only positive he’d gotten from his time in prison were his new muscles, which helped to accentuate his numerous tattoos.
Cayden had always been tall and lean, but now he was tall and muscled. With not much else to do during his yard time, Cayden had taken advantage of the gym equipment. Lifting weights while outside and doing crunches and pushups inside had toned his body nicely.
Not that any of it was helping him to hold down a job.
He had stolen a car—just one, and he was sticking to that story—not a broom. Why would a bunch of house cleaners care that he was an ex-biker? It wasn’t like their lives were that muchbetter than his. They too were cleaning some rich schmuk’s house. But, apparently, his rap sheet made him lower than them on the totem pole.
Mr. Wynn walked into the kitchen, his eyes narrowing at the familiar sight of Cayden and Mr. Jones looking at job listings. “What happened?” the houseowner asked.
Mr. and Mrs. Wynn had turned their home into a halfway house for parolees after their son Josh’s release from prison. Not many ex-cons were so lucky as to have parents or family to take them back in as Josh Wynn. After he’d learned his cellmate had been murdered on the streets, Josh had disappeared, vanishing without a trace. That was almost fifteen years ago. The Wynns had opened their home to ex-cons until either they were rehabilitated back into society or their parole was up.
Mr. Jones had told Cayden the Wynns’ story prior to his release when they had been trying to figure out living options for Cayden. He couldn’t return to his prior residence, as he had lived in the Black Python’s clubhouse. Cayden had admitted to Mr. Jones that the temptation would be too great to fall back into old habits. He also couldn’t go live with his only living relative, his gran, because she lived outside his designated radius.
After meeting the older couple, Cayden suspected that, while the Wynns selflessly opened their home to ex-cons, it broke their hearts that their son was never the one to walk through their door. Mrs. Wynn was a retired secretary. Cayden was actually more fearful of her than he was of her husband. The woman wielded a wooden spoon like a knight would his sword. It was rare that any of the residents disrespected the Mrs. They knew she wouldn’t feed them if they dared to say or do anything against Mr. or Mrs. Wynn.
Mr. Wynn was a former construction entrepreneur. His muscular physique still showed, despite having retired almost ten years prior. The man kept up with the maintenance on thehouse, but always made sure to have one of the residents with him when fixing a problem. He made a grumble that this was for Mrs. Wynn’s peace of mind, but Cayden suspected that it was so he could pass on his knowledge to whomever was with him at the time of the repair. Cayden now knew how to patch up sheetrock and unclog the garbage disposal.
He might be able to take apart and put an eight-cylinder engine back together blindfolded, but he’d never before had to fix a garbage disposal. He appreciated Mr. Wynn’s secret efforts to pass along his skills.
“Same story, different day,” was Cayden’s reply. “They found out my history and I turned into a pariah.”
Mr. Wynn’s face showed disappointment, but his silver eyes blazed with pity. “You know the terms of being here. In order to earn a weekend pass or any other privileges, you have to hold a job for a minimum of fifteen days.”
Cayden bit his tongue to keep from snapping “I know” at the older man. His gran’s slap upside the head was only rivaled by Mrs. Wynn’s skills with a wooden spoon. He didn’t want to gain the wrath of either woman if it got back to them that Cayden had been disrespectful or had lost his temper.
He might be a car thief, and a damn good one too, but he wasn’t some lowlife punk. He’d own what he was and refused to be labeled what he wasn’t.
“I know, sir,” he said evenly. “I’m sorry. I did try.”
